A Walk

I stand under the petrol station canopy, watching the rain as it bounces off the already deep puddles and wonder if the walk was such a good idea after all.
Planning it in the dry and warmth of the kitchen, maps laid out across the table, it had seemed straightforward. Catch the train, get off, walk, find somewhere to stay - a short break without any planning really.
But I'd forgotten to allow for the rain - and I call myself a walker!
I finish the last mouthful of BLT sandwich, my gourmet lunch, courtesy of the garage shop. I take off my rucksack and reach in for my waterproof trousers. Balancing on one booted foot, the other comes to a halt, halfway through its journey down the trouser leg. I almost topple, but manage to force my foot through to freedom. The second foot is no easier. I'm sweating and tell myself for the umpteenth time to take my boots off before going through this performance.
Mission completed, I rest against some bags of barbecue charcoal and get my breath. Gloves on, hat on, complete with earflaps, I set off through the forecourt mini-lake and reach the safety of the pavement. I hear a bus struggling up the hill behind me and instinctively stick out a hand. I'm in luck, there's a stop close by and the bus waits for me.
As we make slow, roundabout, progress through the mist and the murk, I begin to overheat and only then remember to take off my gloves, hat and jacket. The trousers are staying on, no matter how warm it gets. Gradually the rain eases before, miraculously, stopping. I press the bell and step off the bus into the dry. I pinpoint the village on my still soggy map, cross the road, find the waymarker and I'm off.
The sun begins to ease through the clouds as I pass the gas plant and head for the sea. The lighthouse stands alone, retired and a little the worse for wear. The weather's now hot and in tee-shirt and waterproof trousers, I walk miles along the desterted beach, amused by the signs which tell me the sand dunes are unstable cliffs, to be avoided. There's a sound of oyster catchers and far out across the bay the sight of the slowly turning blades of the windfarm.
Hours later I'm peering through the fading evening light at the 'vacancies' sign of a B and B. The downpour has re-started and I stand in rain-slicked clothes, and ear-flapped hat, water dripping from my bearded chin, waiting for someone to answer the door. Eventually it opens and a large man wearing a buttoned waistcoat underneath a green cardigan, eyes me apprehensively. Whatever guest test he's setting, I don't pass muster. He tells me that unfortunately he has only a family suite available, that I'll have to try elsewhere. But when a casual question, as I'm departing, elicits the crucial information that I'm walking the Welsh Coastal Path, a single room suddenly materialises.He tells me it's quite a challenge, all 870 miles of it. I nod and agree.
The Taj Mahal is brightly lit and as I re-hydrate with Indian lager and put another forkful of potato and spinach curry in my mouth, I study the map and plan the second - and final - day of my epic walk.